


So Familiar a Gleam

by lizzledpink



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Character Study, F/M, First Meetings, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Not Really Character Death, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6703966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzledpink/pseuds/lizzledpink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Varric sacrifices himself in the Fade at Adamant, Cassandra struggles with losing him far more than she expects, and it takes her down a road she never thought she'd walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finished this months ago, but wasn't happy with the original ending at all. Finally got around to revising it in a way that I like, so here it is! Yay! Shoutout to Glitz for helping me fix the problems, as always.

For whatever reason, when the last person tumbled out of the Fade and the Inquisitor snapped the rift shut with only a hint of hesitation, Cassandra hadn’t been expecting that last person to be Alistair.

And in truth, by the time her mind caught up to the thing her eyes had seen, she could hardly believe it. The Nightmare’s demons were gone, and the Wardens were returning to their senses, rallying behind Lavellan’s call and Alistair’s leadership. Hawke stood behind them, her face colder than Cassandra had ever before seen it. The instant things settled down, she fixed her eyes on Lavellan, and asked the question that was ringing in Cassandra’s head as soundly as any Calling.

“Where’s Varric?” Hawke asked, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Lavellan glanced away, swallowed, and stared back at Hawke again, not unsympathetic, but not backing down either. “He didn’t make it,” she replied.

Hawke strung her bow, quicker than Cassandra would’ve thought possible, and lifted it. “What do you mean, ‘didn’t make it?’” She asked again.

“I will offer you no excuses,” said Lavellan. For once, Cassandra could see the Dalish in her, proud and unyielding, even to the arrow aimed directly at her throat. She bowed slightly. “Ir abelas, lethallan ma lethallin.”

The words meant little to Cassandra, but the tone was unmistakable, sincere and sorrowful, and Hawke seemed to understand on some level.

She wondered if she could stop the arrow, if Hawke took the shot. It seemed unlikely. She held her breath, waiting. She felt drained of the strength it would take her to step in the way.

Despite the wild look in her eyes, Hawke slowly lowered her bow. But as she approached the Inquisitor, she still kept the arrow nocked, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. She stared Lavellan down - she was taller than Lavellan, a fact that Cassandra often forgot, with the way Hawke liked to make herself seem small while Lavellan always stood tall even at her shortest - and whispered. “If I find you were at fault for this -”

“He said he wouldn’t let anybody else fall victim to red lyrium by his hand,” Lavellan murmured, only just loud enough that Cassandra caught the words.

Hawke looked like she was biting her lip enough to make it bleed. She backed away, step by step, never turning. “I’m leaving,” she said quietly. “Don’t try to stop me. I told him this damned Inquisition of yours would take him, and I was right.”

“Do as you must,” said Lavellan, looking grieved. “You will always be welcome at Skyhold.”

At that invitation, Hawke spat on the ground, turned on her heel, and headed straight out of Adamant. Cassandra might have worried about that, but there seemed to be too much else in her heart crowding it out, leaving room only for a loss that came sharper than expected, struck deeper than intended.

“You’re not worried about her?” Solas asked, a hand on his staff - clearly, one of them would have tried to stop the arrow, Cassandra thought with the little sarcasm she could muster.

“No. She’s angry, and she has every right to be.” Lavellan glanced away again. “Leliana will track her movements, I’m sure, and if she disappears beyond our Nightingale’s grasp, then I expect she won’t bother to trouble us.”

“As you say,” Solas agreed, though he looked like he’d rather disagree.

Alistair broke in. “I’ll round up the remaining Wardens. You deal with yours, I’ll deal with mine.” He paused, grimacing. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Ma serannas,” Lavellan replied, almost absently. Thank you, Cassandra knew, that one meant thank you, though drudging up the knowledge felt like trying to walk through a swamp of sludge. Lavellan rubbed her forehead. “I need to go,” she said. “I need to… Oh, ma guilana haminan,” she murmured, tearing up as she stared at the sky. She wiped at her eyes, and continued muttering. Solas watched her with solemn eyes, and Cassandra still felt at a loss for words.

“Let’s go,” Solas said, interrupting Lavellan. “We will mourn later.”

They seemed like harsh words, from Cassandra’s perspective, but they seemed to be what Lavellan needed. She drew herself up, and even though several feet lay between them, Cassandra felt as if she was leaning on him for support, drawing strength from his callousness. “Right,” she said, and she continued on.

Cassandra trailed after, and though she had Lavellan to follow, she still felt adrift. Directionless. As if she were a compass, and unexpectedly, north had just disappeared, and all the other bearings, south, east, and west alike, felt jarringly wrong without it.

-

Every loss hurt, Cassandra knew. She was no stranger to grief, and its unlimited variations. This one, she figured at first, was like Byron’s. She had thought again and again that things could have been different if she could have helped Byron, thought that she could have prevented his death if only she’d trusted him more, or been a better pupil to him, maybe learned his lessons earlier. The power of that grief had been mainly in the fact that she couldn’t stop wondering.

Yes, there were other deaths in her life that had been this way, but few were so… direct.

She could see herself stumbling out of the Fade and back, blessedly, upon the solid stone of Adamant, and she wondered why she had left first, why Varric and Alistair had left - had not left - last. She wondered why she had dragged him down to the Conclave in the first place, why she had angered him when she found out about Hawke. She had never truly apologized, nor gave him her thanks. She did not even know if he knew she would feel such loss at his death.

They returned to Skyhold. A brief service was held that morning, and Cassandra attended for as long as she could - a handful of minutes, and little more. It was a short service, anyway, with no speeches or Chantry prayers. Many of them believed Hawke, wherever she was, held the right to hold a better one, and would be the only one to know how.

Lavellan checked in on her later. Cassandra hung her head.

“I can’t stop blaming myself,” Cassandra admitted.

“I know the feeling.” Lavellan sighed. “He asked, you know. If anything, blame me. It came down to him or Alistair and… I suppose I chose. They both offered, the damn heroic asshats that they are.”

“And were,” Cassandra corrected robotically. She shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way, Inquisitor. Even if you made the choice, he offered. He felt that his life was something to be thrown away for our sake. Even if I do not blame myself for his decision to make such a choice, then I blame myself for bringing him here, or for making him think he was…” She couldn’t find the word for a moment, drenched as it was in sorrow. “Not of worth.”

“We all feel at fault, and most likely, none of us are,” said Lavellan. “It could have been any of us, and it was him. Varric was a good man, and a good friend. We will all miss him dearly.”

A pang struck Cassandra. “He was,” Cassandra agreed, and then, more firmly, “He _was._ ”

-

When Cassandra was younger, brasher, and less willing to accept the dreadful vagaries of the world, grief had been hard for her. She carried it like a badge of honor, not realizing it was more a poison to her, stealing her self-control and blinding her to the truth.

It had taken Regalyan, a man of surprising patience and gentleness underneath his joking, well over a year to truly find the briar in her heart and pluck it out for her to see.

“When Anthony died, I was heartbroken,” she had told him. “I was so angry - I wanted to hurt the mages who had killed my only brother. I wanted to become something that could - could break them,” she admitted, ashamed. “Now I wonder if I was almost more angry at Anthony himself, for going and getting himself killed on me. He was all the family I had left, besides my damned uncle, too caught up in his own world to look after mine. He left me alone. And yet instead of honoring his memory, his love for me, I couldn’t move on.”

“It was unresolved.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. “You couldn’t mourn him completely while you still carried feelings towards him you wouldn’t admit. You buried your anger towards him, redirecting it to mages, Cassandra, and so you couldn’t rest.”

“That was unfair of me,” she’d replied, grabbing his hand, then pressing a kiss to the corner of his cheek. “I should not have blamed all mages for the work of a few.”

“Yes, yes, Circle good, maleficarum bad, Galyan best; we’ve had this talk before, you know,” he’d joked, making her scowl at his teasing.  “The point is, perhaps if you had realized that sooner, you would have been able to grieve sooner as well.”

“Maybe,” Cassandra had said, but then she hadn’t wanted to talk anymore, and she’d let Regalyan sweep her off her feet.

It was a good memory, if in small ways also a painful one. For whatever reason, Regalyan’s words were striking a chord with her this day, ringing around her head, unbidden.

The loss of Varric was still brutal. His desk in the hallway had been taken away - in fact, shipped to Kirkwall, according to Josephine. The spot was empty now, and whenever newcomers to Skyhold stood around its main hall and took up that space, Cassandra always felt a small urge to hit them. They couldn’t know who they were replacing, yet, she couldn’t help but feel angry. The Iron Bull had invited her to drink with others for a night, but she had turned him down, instead quietly enjoying a drink of her own in private. The alcohol yielded no answers, unfortunately - only a headache that had her snapping at everybody the following morning.

They were all grieving. Had grieved. Were grieving. Grief was strange like that, ongoing. Even when she’d finally learned how to do it, she’d found that it cropped back up at the most inconvenient of times. While she was unlikely to burst into tears at the thought of Anthony, the wrong smell or handful of words could still jar her sometimes, taking her out of the present to a time that had been lost long ago. She sometimes still remembered things about him she thought she’d already forgotten.

But Cassandra still felt out of touch with the rest of Skyhold, a half-step removed from the rest. She avoided Cole, knowing this was something she wanted to work out herself. There was a curtain of numbness between her and the rest of the world, nothing like the radiating anger that had driven her after Anthony’s death, nothing like anything she had felt before.

Regret and all the other normal things poked their head in sometimes, but it was mostly the numbness, the apathy, the feeling like everybody she talked to was somehow farther away from her than the distance appeared to be.

She’d heard the idea before that ghosts weren’t tied to the world by their unresolved business so much as someone else’s - clinging from the Fade by a thread of necessity, dragged out of it by someone’s lingering problems and feelings.

Cassandra hoped she wasn’t keeping Varric here, with whatever it was she was missing, whatever it was that made her lash out and throw the final chapter of _Swords & Shields _against a wall, and made her gasp, but not cry, when the blow broke its binding.

She gathered up the split pieces, trying to arrange them back into their original form. There was no point. She would need to get another copy - or have the pages re-bound. They each felt like different kinds of betrayal, and Cassandra wondered what Varric would have titled a book about the Inquisition, or whatever brilliant thing he had been planning to write next.

There would be no opportunity for her to find out, and no opportunity for him to write the myriad brilliant stories always playing out in his head. She put the shattered book on her table and left, shaken.

“Unresolved,” she said to herself, leaning over a cold, empty part of Skyhold’s walls. The Frostbacks were shining brightly, their snow reflecting enough light that she kept her eyes facing their rocky bases to keep her eyes from burning. She tasted the word on her tongue, and wondered what it was about Varric that she’d left unacknowledged, undone.

-

While she hoped Varric’s ghost did not linger by her, waiting for her to finish whatever it was that kept her from breaking through, she felt that he was.

There was no real reason for it. With time, she had remembered how to act like a person again, going through ever so slightly more than just the motions. But she found that his voice was such a source of irritation to her that it followed her even beyond the grave.

It was only her mind, she knew. She did not truly hear his voice. But the imaginings her mind concocted wouldn’t stop. She would hit practice dummies in the morning, and there it would be at the edge of her thoughts, taunting her about “stabbing feelings.” She would follow the Inquisitor into the Emerald Graves, and she could almost hear his laugh, taunting the Inquisitor about getting one of them. She’d think back angrily in her head, and he’d never reply, of course.

Sometimes, she’d dream of him running.

One moment, her dream would be sensible, or at least as sensible as dreams ever were. She would be riding her horse through the eastern roads of Nevarra, or she’d dream of sitting on the Sunburst Throne only to find someone had placed a tack there, or she would be at the Halamshiral ball, never mind that she’d never seen Halamshiral before, and just as the last time she’d dreamed it a knife sank into Lavellan’s chest mere moments before she could intercept it.

And then, he would be running.

It never ended well. He would run past her, and suddenly the world she had been in melted into the Fade. She knew it wasn’t real, just a dream, but try as she might she couldn’t wake herself up.

Sometimes the Nightmare caught up to Varric, goring him through before he even saw her, and she watched the life fade from his eyes and heard the Nightmare’s laughter Sometimes, he ran into her, and the extra bump caused Duke Gaspard’s knife to slice into her chest instead, and she died as he screamed her name, and she woke up. Sometimes Varric ran straight by her, ducking around citizens of Val Royeaux with muttered “excuse mes” that were far more polite than the situation demanded, as a monstrous spider rampaged after him. Sometimes, she had to light a candle when she woke up, so she could look at herself, just to make sure his blood wasn’t still running down her hands.

She never blamed him.

Throughout it all, she couldn’t be angry at him. It was just so like him, in a way she might not have admitted before he had actually done it, to sacrifice himself to save the rest of them. To believe that it was all his fault, and so he had to be the one to fix it.

How could she fault him? It was a sacrifice worthy of a saint, a tale so grand that it deserved the exaggeration he would have given it: a dwarf in the Fade, standing against a demon of immense power for the chance to make amends. He would say the demon was as tall as the Grand Cathedral and as wide as the Waking Sea. He would say he was armed with only his crossbow and his wits, and he charged in boldly, landing some kind of death blow just before he finally succumbed to his glorious wounds.

It was almost funny enough a thought to make her laugh, but not quite.

She hated how he lingered, yes, how he tainted every corner and shoved his way into every thought, but she couldn’t hate him for it. It seemed to her that she had been angry enough while he lived. In his death, her anger was spent, and she was only just now beginning to unearth what remained in its wake.

-

She had been very young, and it wasn’t fair of him, but Anthony told her she was telegraphing, anyway.

“I can see everything you’re thinking,” he would say, batting away the stick in her hand without blinking. “It’s obvious, even when you feign.”

“Feign?”

“Fake it,” he amended, briefly remembering she was a young girl.

She dug her heels in. “I can trick Uncle,” she told him, still holding up the stick even though her arms were beginning to tire. “I’ve gotten him before.”

“That’s because Uncle doesn’t know you,” Anthony replied. “To anyone who knows you, it’s plain as day. You make a certain face when you’re pretending, you know. Work on that.”

She so desperately wanted to hunt dragons with him that she didn’t even question it. She only tried harder to meet the standards he set for her, standards probably too far out of her reach, and she never managed to fake him out once.

Unfortunately, she had never completely succeeded at shaking that transparency. Honesty was in her bones, it seemed, even slipping into the tilt of her sword. While strangers could never read her, friends always could, and she never did try to feign with her sword as much as she should have against her trainers or her companions.

So it should not have surprised her when Lavellan took her aside, but it did.

“Cassandra, I’m benching you for the next mission.”

The words didn’t even make sense to her at first, coming across as a garbled mess until she could puzzle them out. “Benched?”

“I know you were going to come along with us to Halamshiral, but I can’t have you there in this state.”

“What state?”

“Are you going to make this difficult?” Lavellan rubbed her forehead, grimacing. “You’ve managed well enough, but I know that you’ve been hit hard, Cassandra. I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t risk you having a breakdown in the middle of something important.”

Cassandra bristled. “I would never -”

Lavellan barreled straight through her protest. “I want you to take the time we’re at Halamshiral to rest and sort yourself out. Maybe it will give you a chance to deal with whatever it is that’s haunting you, Creators willing.”

There was a subtle note of pleading in the Inquisitor’s voice that tamed Cassandra’s irritation. “I am fine. And I would _never_ risk the Inquisition,” she said quietly.

“Honestly, damn the Inquisition,” Lavellan said, crossing her arms. “It’s not important. I only said that in hopes that you’d listen to that argument first. Look, Cassandra, if you broke down in the middle of the biggest ballroom at the Empress’ court, I wouldn’t care. The Inquisition could recover, I’m certain. I’m more worried about you, understand? I have no idea why - why you’ve been struggling so much,” she said, dancing around words like “Varric” and “death” as if they would hurt less left unsaid, “but you’re going to run yourself into the ground if you don’t take a moment to care for yourself rather than the Inquisition for a change.”

Cassandra turned and walked away a few steps, flapping a hand at Lavellan as if to quiet her. She wasn’t hearing this, was she?

But perhaps there was some merit to Lavellan’s idea, because though Cassandra waited for it - the protests, the anger, sharp words she would later regret - none of it came. She didn’t care. That was, in itself, troublesome. She _should_ have cared, and something was very wrong if her apathy was extending even this far.

She sighed and turned around again. “Maybe you’re right,” Cassandra said, “I am not myself. But I warn you that nothing may come of it.”

“Just try. Please.”

“I will,” Cassandra promised, very genuinely. “I’m sorry. I did not want to trouble you with… with whatever it is that has me out of sorts. I had hoped to hide it from you.”

The Inquisitor put a hand on her shoulder. “Cassandra, I’m telling you this as a friend: everyone knows.”

“Everyone?”

“Pretty much.”

“And nobody thought to tell me?”

“We’ve all been struggling,” Lavellan said. “We understand the need for space. We just want you to be okay.”

Cassandra closed her eyes, feeling a slight blush of embarrassment in her cheeks. “Good luck at the ball, Inquisitor,” she said, hoping to change the subject.

“Thank you.” Lavellan paused, then dared to say, “I thought you’d be happier about missing it, really.”

That was true enough. “I hate balls. And Orlesian nobles. And the Game. You’re right. I’ll try harder to be overjoyed to skip it all.”

Chuckling, Lavellan said, “That’s the spirit.”

She left in good cheer, and Cassandra smiled slightly watching her go.

But now, unfortunately, she was left with a great deal of free time, and she had no idea what to do with it. How did one solve a problem they couldn’t even understand? How did one start healing one’s soul? All she had to go on was the cause, and thinking of Varric was hard, thinking of him made her throat tighten up until she could hardly breathe. She had never been very good at taking breaks or resting.

No, that wasn’t completely true, actually. It was just that when she did take her breaks, she always knew what she would do. She had long ago found the routine that most helped her to relax when she needed it. She would draw herself a bath, perhaps after buying a lovely scent or borrowing one from Leliana, and she would soak herself in water nearly hot enough to scald, and for a long time, until the water cooled and forced her to stop, she would read.

It was a good routine.

But she hadn’t read from a book in over a month, and she knew exactly the reason why, so it simply wasn’t an option. It would not relax her to read, now, and she thought maybe she should hate him for taking away one of her greatest joys. Yet she didn’t.

-

Eventually, she wandered. It was night, and nearly everybody was sleeping, preparing for the journey to Halamshiral that would come in the morning.

She did not know, at first, where her feet would take her. Tense, she kept one hand on the hilt of her sword, as if expecting a dragon or three to swoop down and interrupt her. None did. The few awake were the guards who would not know or care why Seeker Pentaghast was taking a midnight stroll through Skyhold, and she trusted their discretion, and for some, their fear of crossing her.

She found herself in Skyhold’s main hall, lit by only one or two torches at this time of night. The desk was gone, but the chair remained. But it wasn’t quite where she wanted to go, was it?

If his ghost was truly following her, then she prayed now that he would forgive her this small transgression. She descended stairs and slipped through narrow hallways, until at last she came to a room she’d never looked upon before. She had never had cause to - it was deep in the castle, and Varric had never been one to make use of it unless he was sleeping. Sometimes not even then, if he had fallen asleep at his desk, half-scribbled missives trapped under his cheek and scattered across the floor.

She’d expected it to be empty, all the important parts already shipped off to Kirkwall. But it looked untouched. Dusted, actually - someone had been by and given it a bit of cleaning, and while a few scraps of dust still lingered in some of the corners, there was remarkably little of it for a place that should have been collecting it for weeks.

It was small, and sparsely decorated - his dresser was clean and his mirror polished, there was a Wicked Grace card propped up on his desk as some would display a portrait, and his bed, adorned with dark red sheets which were clearly the most expensive feature of the room, remained made, if a little sloppily. There was paper, everywhere. It was one of her closest associations with him, but she’d never expected that in the privacy of his own room, it would be so ubiquitous. She felt as if she might trip on a chapter of something, only to slip and fall into a chapter of something else.

It was wrong of her, of course, but he would never know, and she felt drawn to his desk. More than one thing was left partially written there. Some of it was sorted out - more official missives, Cassandra assumed, noting the seal of the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall on one.

She picked up a letter at the side, worn with creases and sporting a brown fingerprint towards its bottom. Chocolate, maybe.

The hand was dainty and quick, written by one who often wrote, but strange, with no formal Chantry training in its letters. She read lines never meant for her eyes and quickly learned that Merrill was worried for Varric, hoping he and Hawke were well. Hoping they were being cautious. There was another’s writing at the bottom, only a short sentence, coarser and hard to make out, with accidental ink blots dotting the letters. “Tell Hawke to not die,” she eventually deciphered.

Cassandra swallowed hard, putting the letter down. Shame rose in her, but she couldn’t stop. She looked at the letter she’d found next to it, but it only said, “Daisy, I’m fine.” The rest remained unwritten.

There was a haphazard stack of papers at the other end of his desk, liable to fall off it any time. She picked it up, and the words on the first page caught her eye. “Fuck This Shit,” it said, though the words were crossed out, with a note on the side about someone he called ‘M’ killing him, and underneath was written, “The Tale of the Inquisitor.” That, too, was crossed out, as well as two or three other lines, and Varric had left a series of question marks under the lot of them. “By Varric Tethras” seemed to be the only part that remained untouched.

She flipped the page over, careful not to tear anything, and read the first lines. He started in the middle of closing the Breach, she found, throwing the reader straight into the heart of matters without explaining a thing. There was a term for it, she knew. Even knowing what was going on, Cassandra found herself enthralled. Lavellan, in his eyes, was the kind of hero who acted against all the odds - a small elf who carried a sword larger than herself, as Varric described her, facing the wrath of a Pride demon. He described Solas, a mysterious apostate with a great deal of intellect. He described Corypheus’ voice, noting that it felt strangely familiar, though at the time he hadn’t placed it. Perfect foreshadowing, Cassandra thought grimly.

He avoided describing her, at first, mentioning only her name. It confused Cassandra. Why would he avoid speaking of her? But then, the Breach closed, and Lavellan passed out with the effort of it, and finally Varric jumped backwards.

Too far backwards.

_But for me, it started before all that shit._

_I was in Kirkwall, minding my own business, buying a gift for a friend. I turned down an alley in Hightown and found a couple of uniformed thugs waiting for me down the aisle. Never a good sign, I thought. I slipped the gift into my jacket, not knowing that I’d never find the chance to send it._

She’d never known that, she thought to herself, shocked. She had never intended to… to disrupt his life as much as she clearly had.

_“In the name of the Divine, you’re coming with us,” said Burly on the right, his voice muffled by an ominous mask._

_The Divine. The name sent a shiver down my spine, as it would for any self-respecting rogue from the Hanged Man to the Blooming Rose. Sure, I liked the Chantry well enough, but it had nothing to do with me. Should’ve had nothing to do with me._

_Still, I put on my best smile. Maybe a bit of cooperation would buy me a chance to slip away. “Anything for Her Most Holiness,” I joked. My humor was lost on those goons, really._

_Burly grabbed my arm, though Brawn on his other side shook his head, and Burly let me go. I dropped my guard for just a hair too long, and Brawn blindfolded me. They dragged me around a corner. Nobody heard my shouting, or nobody cared. Damn Hightown._

_They were trying to be subtle, but this was my turf. I knew Kirkwall better than the back of my hand, and I knew where they took me. The Champion of Kirkwall had abandoned her house long ago, but they must have forced the door open. What were they doing here? Who was stupid or bold enough to use Hawke’s place for a hideout?_

_Well, the Chantry, I guess. I remembered now who the thugs were, and what their insignia meant. They were the fabled Seekers, the secret agents of the Divine. The mysterious organization that controlled the Templars from behind the scenes._

_They ripped off the blindfold, and shoved me roughly into a chair. I muttered something while I regained my bearings - don’t know what. Something about having had kinder invitations. They could’ve asked nicely, really._

_It was dark in there. Unlit. Spooky. Meant to throw me off my game. I’ll admit, it was working - but not so much because of the environment as because of her._

Cassandra paused, looking away. There was no going back if she read past this point. Was this really something she was going to do? Reading his writing about her?

Maybe it was. She turned her eyes back, trying to keep herself from gripping the paper hard enough to crinkle it.

_Stepping into the light, she introduced herself. “I am Cassandra Pentaghast,” she said, “Seeker of the Chantry.” And the Right Hand of the Divine, I thought to myself. She was not a woman I ever thought I’d cross._

_She was sharp-eyed, like a hawk - no pun intended. Her hair was cropped short. Dark. She looked like a huntress, a lioness who’d never take her claws out of you once she got them in there. And I was her hapless, unfortunate prey._

He’d scribbled over something there. She tried to read it, but unlike his other strikethroughs, this one was blacked out entirely. Try as she might, she couldn’t figure out any of the words. Still, a huntress? Was that truly how he had seen her? She’d never thought of herself in such a way. She was only a woman doing her job.

_“And just what are you, uh, Seeking?”_

_“The Champion.”_

_It was a bad move, I’ll admit. She wasn’t the kind of bee’s nest I should have been poking. I glanced at my hands, casually. “...Which one?”_

_“You know exactly why I’m here!” she shouted. She threw a book at my head - my own book! - and drew a knife, pointing the tip at my throat. Bad way to die, I thought, my heart racing._

_“Start talking, dwarf,” she demanded. “They tell me you’re good at it.”_

_She struck with her dagger - driving it straight through the book that had fallen in my lap. I breathed in relief as she turned away. Maybe she wasn’t here to kill me after all, I thought. I picked up the book with my hands, inspecting it for something to do while I calmed down. It was a perfectly good copy of The Tale of the Champion. Such a waste._

It was so strange to read, to see it from his point of view. It was a bit embellished, yes, but much of it rang true for her. It twisted her world sideways, forcing her to see it like this.

_Maintaining the most casual voice I could, I asked, “What do you want to know?”_

_“Everything,” she said. “Start at the beginning.”_

_I didn’t know exactly what she wanted from me, but I was starting to get an idea, and I wasn’t about to give up my friends without a fight. So, I did what I do best: I bullshitted._

That startled a soft laugh out of her, knowing what was coming next. And indeed, it was in the very next line.

_“Bullshit,” she said, right as I was getting to the good part. “That’s not what really happened.”_

_I leaned back, in my element as a storyteller even with her interruption. “Isn’t that the story you wanted, Seeker?”_

_“I’m not interested in stories,” she said. “I came to hear the truth.”_

_“What makes you think I know the truth?”_

_“Don’t lie to me!” she shouted. “You knew her even before she became the Champion!”_

_I held up my hands in surrender. “Easy,” I said. “Even if I did, I don’t know where she is now.”_

_She was frustrated, I could tell. And not just at me, either. Something was bothering her, pressuring her. Something more than I knew. “Do you have any idea what’s at stake here?” she asked._

_The truth? I didn’t. I thought I knew what she’d grabbed me for. I spun some more bullshit, about how her precious Chantry was falling apart, the mages, the templars, so on and so forth. I thought, whatever her problems were? They weren’t mine._

_But I was wrong._

The rest of the chapter was stricken out, but she read it anyway, as if maybe the secret she was looking for, whatever it was that had brought her here, would be hidden there.

And maybe it was.

_Maybe most of all, I was wrong about her. When I started talking, really talking, she wasn’t just waiting to hear whatever it was she wanted to know - she listened, really listened._

_For all her book-stabbing and dwarf-threatening, I would soon learn that Cassandra Pentaghast was a woman who just wanted to get shit done. I could, and would respect that. And when the sky tore open, I would be right there with her, trusting her with my back. No question about it._

It was a passage too personal for a published book. It felt more like something he’d written without thinking, musing to himself more than trying to play to the audience. No wonder he’d stricken it out. The words were kinder to her than she had expected, or deserved.

Had he truly written that about her? When? Recently? The chapter or two beneath that one suggested otherwise.

She had seen too much. She should have stopped where he had intended to stop, and left it at that. Cassandra put the sheaf of papers down, covering her mouth with one hand as if her very breath would alert someone to the fact that she had made a mistake.

In a rush, she nearly knocked over his chair as she fled the room. Actually, she hadn’t even consciously noticed that she’d sat in it as she read. She put the sheaf of papers back on his desk in the same corner she’d found them, and hurriedly walked out of there.

Tears prickled at her eyes, but wouldn’t fall. Her throat felt dry. She needed a drink of water, she thought, but the shortest way to a kitchen would be back through the hallways she just left, and she wanted to go far away, and forget what she had done.

At last, she left Skyhold’s hall, breathing deeply and appreciating the fresh air of the courtyard. The moon was bright, peeking through a few sparse clouds high in the sky, and its light soothed her. She leaned against the stones of the wall, closing her eyes, listening only to the footsteps of soldiers and the occasional chirp of a bug.

What now? What was she supposed to do now? When the Inquisitor had told her she should rest and figure herself out, surely she hadn’t meant for Cassandra to ransack a dead person’s bedroom and intrude on his privacy.

“Cassandra?”

Cole’s voice didn’t startle her, surprisingly. She opened her eyes again, tensing. There was only one person in Skyhold who might know what she had done, and here he was.

“Good evening, Cole,” she said.

“You’re going to miss him.”

“I…” She hadn’t said it to herself, not in so many words, but Cole had struck the right note. She missed him. It was true. She _missed_ him, even though he irked her every nerve and angered her like no one else. “I already do,” she murmured.

“You’re not alone,” Cole said.

“I feel very alone, anyway.”

“Yes, I know, but you’re not.”

Cassandra gave him a wistful smile. “It’s not so easy to convince myself of that, I’m afraid.”

“Will you go to him?”

She sighed. “How? There’s - there’s no body.”

“Trace backward, not forward,” Cole told her, meeting her eyes. He was smiling slightly. “You’ll understand.”

Frustratingly, it seemed like whatever was holding her in place was something Cole already knew. But this once, he had refrained from blurting it out. He was letting her find her way on her own. She almost wished he _would_ blurt it out for once, so she could get this over with.

Backward, not forward. What was that supposed to mean? It reminded her of something, but she couldn’t think of it just now. She was beginning to tire, and her mind was still unsettled by Varric’s writing.

Her bedroom was far, and the smithy was closer. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but she did have blankets there, and she wasn’t sure she had the energy to cross Skyhold again.

She fell asleep dreaming of the Halamshiral ball again. Everybody was in masks. She danced with someone shorter than her; she glided across the floor, like all the others were merely props and the two of them were the only ones there.

“I know you,” she told him. She did, somehow - but she couldn’t recognize him. She could only see the mask, emerald green with red gems on the cheeks and gold studs around the edges, a haunting smile etched into its unliving face.

“That’s my cue,” he replied. He swept her into a dip, and she closed her eyes, but nothing happened. When he propped her back up, he was suddenly gone - running off again.

She gave chase, following the trail of blood he left behind, but she came to a locked door, and couldn’t open it.

-

“Seekers,” Beatrix had once scoffed. “Your mistake is right there in the name, is it not?”

It was still early in Cassandra’s service to Most Holy, and it still surprised her when Beatrix spoke in ways she thought a Divine would not. It seemed to be happening more lately, though whether that was due to their increasing familiarity or caused by some other influence, Cassandra didn’t know. “Have I offended?” she asked, fumbling to understand.

“Of course not. What have you done about this situation, Cassandra?”

“I have tracked the remaining people among Threnhold’s supporters,” Cassandra said slowly. “Two ships may have departed with them on board, either in the direction of Highever or Llomerryn. I have sent Seekers to follow both -”

“They will find nothing.”

Cassandra nearly snapped at her, proud as she was of the Seekers and the work they accomplished. She held her tongue, and asked, “Why?”

“These are the sort of people who disappear, Cassandra. They are a political faction, and thus wholly unlike both the mages and the templars you are trained to trace. They must regroup before they act again.”

“Then what do you propose, Most Holy?”

“Their leanings will be their undoing.” Beatrix smiled, almost smugly, like she knew a secret. Cassandra hated it. “When it comes to things like this, Cassandra, you do not merely follow the path they leave behind. You trace backward, not forward. You look for the source. Think about it, my Hand. I must write to Dorothea.” She walked away at that point, her features once again graceful.

When she finally calmed herself, Cassandra pondered Most Holy’s words. Before long, she was redirecting her Seekers to Ostwick, where Threnhold’s ambitious cousin lived, and the conspirators practically lined up at the doorstep, falling into Seeker control one by one.

Though Cassandra had respected Beatrix, and served her willingly and faithfully, she had never really _liked_ her. Beatrix had meddled - with good intentions, maybe - but she had meddled nonetheless in places that Cassandra had often thought would have been better off without her influence. She had called Cassandra “my Hand” often enough that she sometimes felt like more than a tool than a person to her, and she carried a pride with her, like she knew the Maker had chosen her for great things and she wasn’t afraid to flaunt it.

But she was a good Divine, and her decline and eventual passing still saddened Cassandra. She could not truly think ill of her, and the lessons she learned by Beatrix’s side had served her very well when Justinia took her place as Divine. When Justinia ascended, Cassandra felt far more tempered and honed, and Justinia turned out to be the kind of Divine she would follow into the Fade itself - though that was perhaps a poor choice of words after what had happened.

How Cole had plucked this memory from her mind, she didn’t know, but it was exactly the hint she had needed. Backward, not forward. She needed to go to him, to find him - figuratively speaking. If the previous night had been forward, in a sense, then backward could only mean that to figure this out, she would have to look beyond Skyhold for answers.

She slept in, both to rest well and to ensure that the Inquisitor’s party would leave long before she did. She tried to be subtle. Lavellan hadn’t exactly forbid her from leaving Skyhold, but neither did Cassandra think the Inquisitor would have expected it. She had been ordered to rest, after all, and a hard ride to the other side of Orlais didn’t really count as resting.

She was packed before lunch, bringing food and unmarked armor, throwing in the broken copy of _Swords & Shields _at the last second. She took her mount shortly after she had eaten.

If she wanted to go to Adamant and be back by the time the Inquisition returned, she would have to travel at a harsh pace. She did have advantages on her side. The Inquisition took with them large retinue of guards, and the larger the party, the slower the travel. She was but one rider, and could cover the distance quickly. It would still be a close thing. She had already decided that if she was a day or two late, she would take the scolding. This was more important.

Why she felt the need to go to Adamant so strongly, she didn’t know, but she did.

Perhaps there, she could finally put Varric’s soul to rest.

-

In her more ridiculous moments, she felt like he was guiding her there. It was still just her imagination toying with her, she knew. He wasn’t actually there to encourage her, or tell her to play it safe and stay off the road when a group came by, or to crack jokes about the run-down inns she stayed at.

But all the same, she could picture it. It was soothing to think that he might approve of her journey, and that he might forgive her horrible intrusion. She would never truly know, however, and she did not take her imaginings for true forgiveness. She would simply have to bear that weight on her soul.

It was a long journey, and a lonesome one. She took out the final chapter of _Swords & Shields_, holding the pages with deep care to avoid disturbing the pages further, and read it again, broken binding and all.

Even if it had only been for a laugh, she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he had written it for _her_.

-

Adamant was supposed to be abandoned.

It was daylight when she caught sight of the fortress. It looked empty, at first glance. The walls they had torn apart with their trebuchets were still crumbled, and more than one enormous boulder remained in sight at the bottom of the rubble.

She was weary, but she was more than alert enough to take notice of a small, pale column of smoke rising from within its walls. A campfire.

Whoever they were - Bandits? Grey Wardens? Mere travelers, if she was lucky? - they didn’t appear to have seen her yet. There was no welcoming party, at least. She nudged her horse off the road with quiet urgings, leading it behind Adamant’s eastern wall. If something happened to Cassandra, the horse was a lovely mount. Whoever was here would find her eventually, and she would end up sold for money, hopefully to a good owner.

Quietly, Cassandra slipped to the ground. She drew her sword and kept her shield ready as she walked around the fortress’ perimeter. Soon, she found a hole gouged in the wall, and she stepped through, careful to disturb the pebbles as little as possible. She didn’t want to make any sound.

Adamant’s halls were empty. Had she not seen the fire, she would have assumed nobody had been here since the Inquisition’s attack. There were patches of blood here and there, though most of the bigger pools had been wiped away by either the Inquisition or the Wardens, who had undoubtedly already cremated all their own. There was little proof left of the great battle that had been waged here so recently.

She was able to navigate up the stairs, and she found herself on a high wall that overlooked the central courtyard. Carefully, she peeked over the walls.

From this height, she couldn’t make them out very easily, but nevertheless they were a smaller group than she’d expected. Only three of them sat around the fire. She spotted two mages from their staffs, both of them apparently women, and likely both apostates. There was another woman, too, with her back to Cassandra. She was flipping a dagger up and down in one gloved hand.

Cassandra frowned. For a small group like this, especially of women, it was strange. She would expect them to hire a bodyguard of some sort, a proper warrior, with a sword. Daggers and magic were too easily overtaken in close combat. Then where…?

Too late, she turned back to the stairwell. She saw a bright light, but her mind couldn’t register what it was in time - a sword pommel hit her temple, and she blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

She came to, and noticed, without moving, that she was tied to a chair.

That aside, she felt fine, if a little dazed. She berated herself for letting someone get the drop on her. Whoever they had been, they had been extraordinarily quiet, and she had been far too distracted to work out their presence in time. She was lucky they hadn’t killed her.

Deliberately, she had taken with her nothing that identified her as belonging to either the Seekers or the Inquisition. If she was lucky, her captors knew nothing about her. Whatever they were doing here was clearly concerning enough that they had tied her to a chair, but they were good enough people that they hadn’t killed her.

She heard their voices, now. A woman was talking - she was close, but spoke gently. The fire crackled.

“I’m telling you, she’ll wake up any second now,” the voice said. “She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who lets a small head wound keep her down.”

“I hope so.” The voice was lighter, more frantic. The accent… Was she Dalish? “I really would hate for her to be hurt. How did she even find us?”

“Lucky guess?” the other voice said, sarcastically. “Who knows. Maybe my dear, careless sister left a trail.”

“You don’t give Hawke - I mean, your sister - enough credit. Cassandra couldn’t find her before, could she?”

Hawke?

Cassandra had a funny feeling that she would learn no more from pretending to be unconscious. She lifted her head, tensing and untensing what muscles she could to shake off some of the stiffness.

“Told you so,” said the first voice, amused.

Cassandra opened her eyes and confirmed her suspicions.

Bethany Hawke looked less like the Champion of Kirkwall than she would have expected, but they shared a pretty round face, and the resemblance was there, if you were looking for it. Her armor was dull with long use, and she had that little edge about her that all Wardens did. She looked very tired, even with the hooked smile on her face.

Turning her head a little, Cassandra saw the other, an elf who, with short, dark hair and big, sweet eyes, could only be Merrill.

“Are you alright?” Merrill asked, fretting. She twisted her hands around a little - Andraste, it was weird to see the quirks Varric had told her about playing out in real life. “I hope Fenris didn’t hit you too hard.”

“Hawke is here?” Cassandra asked, frowning. She couldn’t put together the pieces of this puzzle. “Why are _you_ here?”

“I assigned myself,” Bethany said, standing indignantly with a hand on one hip. “I’m actually _supposed_ to be here, unlike some people. Warden Bethany Hawke, by the way. I’d offer a hand for you to shake, but, well.” She waved at the thick ropes tying Cassandra up.

Cassandra blinked at her, still perplexed. “I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, though I think you already knew that,” she replied, dryly. “I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but, well.” She shook her wrists as much as the ropes would allow.

Bethany grinned. “Oh, she’s grand,” she said. “Think we can keep her?” she asked Merrill.

“Maybe?” Merrill squeaked. She was so nervous about something that Cassandra almost expected her to topple over on the spot. “It’s - it’s nice to meet you, it really is,” she babbled. “I’m Merrill. Obviously. Varric’s said a lot about you, I feel like I already know you. I mean, er - sorry, that’s probably not a very helpful thing to say right now.”

“Not really, no.” He had spoken of her? “Why am I tied up?”

Merrill opened her mouth to reply, but Bethany nudged her with an elbow. “Don’t bother, Merrill. Let’s wait until those two are done making out and then tell her, as a team.”

“They are _not_ making out,” said Merrill.

“I’ll put down a silver that they are.”

Merrill teased, “The Wardens corrupted you. You never used to make bets.”

“That’s because the Wardens taught me how to _win_ bets, silly. Keep an eye on her. I’ll go find them and tell them she’s awake.”

“Fine, fine. Go on and kick them if they are, though.”

Bethany rolled her eyes as she headed off.

Cassandra wasn’t sure what to make of any of this. She knew Hawke’s group was a quirky bunch, but even just between Bethany and Merrill there was a fast-paced dynamic and sense of family that she could only barely keep up with.

And the ropes were still confounding. Did Hawke think she’d attack her, for some reason?

“Can we talk?” Merrill asked, taking a seat nearby.

“Are you going to untie me? I’m not fond of being held captive.”

“Sorry,” Merrill said, ducking her head. “We wouldn’t have tied you up if it wasn’t important. Really. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. Like a party, or something.”

“I got the impression he wanted to keep me as far away from all of you as possible,” Cassandra muttered.

“Only when he thought you were going to steal Hawke away and… Well, you know.” Merrill’s expression turned grim, determined. “He’s always been very protective of us. He likes to think he isn’t the type to fret, but he’s like a mother hen, really, if you catch him in the mood.” Merrill peered up at her, hesitantly. “He’d started fretting about you too, you know.”

“He _what_?”

Merrill waved her hands in the air. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Never mind! The point is, from everything he’s said about you - despite the ropes, we all like you, I swear. Hawke, too, even if she won’t say it. Though, I suppose Fenris will probably be wary of you, but he takes a while to warm up to people sometimes. And I’m sure he feels bad about knocking you out. He just assumed you were bad news, you know, skulking around.”

Cassandra snorted. “If you all actually like me, you have a funny way of showing it.”

Merrill actually smiled a little at that. “We’re a little strange that way, I know.”

Despite the situation, Cassandra had to admit that she liked Merrill exactly as much as she thought she would, and Bethany, too. She wound up smiling slightly back.

Though she fully intended to ream Hawke out the moment she saw her. Something about all this seemed very out of place.

“I wasn’t skulking,” Cassandra said, after a moment. “When I saw the smoke from your fire, I thought maybe bandits had taken the place. I thought the Wardens were supposed to have left for Weisshaupt. I had no idea that any of you would be here, or I might have used the front door.”

“That’s a relief,” Merrill said. “Hawke’s so angry with the Inquisition right now. If you’d tracked her down for them, she would have been… displeased.”

“I don’t think Leliana knows of her whereabouts. Certainly, I would not have expected her to double back here. I especially wouldn’t have expected her to bring all of you, as well.” She might have been fishing a little too blatantly, there.

“We had our reasons to come,” Merrilll said vaguely. “But then, so did you, I’m sure. Why did you come here, anyway, if not for Hawke?”

Now, that was a question. Cassandra glanced away, though her gaze eventually caught on something that wasn’t there. Merrill wouldn’t know, she didn’t think. “Chasing ghosts,” she answered, also vaguely.

“No big mission? Nothing?”

“The Inquisitor is busy at Halamshiral. I… slipped away.”

“Oh.”

Cassandra looked back at Merrill, trying to gauge her reaction. Strangely, Merrill was looking at her with wide, slightly-hopeful eyes.

Bethany returned at that moment, commanding attention the instant she came over. “Got Fenris,” she said cheerfully. “He found your horse, Seeker, and he was giving it something to eat. He’ll go grab Hawke in a moment.” Though Cassandra thought Bethany was using it more as a title, it still sounded strange to hear Varric’s irreverent nickname coming from her.

“Told you they weren’t making out,” Merrill said triumphantly.

Bethany chuckled. “Oh, they were, just not when I found him. He looked very... ruffled. Had some of her lip color on his face that he hadn’t caught.”

“This is why I don’t take your bets.” Merrill sighed, exasperated.

“I will have to thank him for caring for my horse,” Cassandra interrupted.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bethany said. “Least we could do. When did you leave the Inquisition, anyway? Poor thing looked exhausted.”

“She can’t have left too long ago,” Merrill said. “Apparently, this wasn’t exactly an Inquisition mission. She was simply, as she put it, ‘chasing ghosts’.”

Cassandra had the distinct impression that she was being teased, somehow. Bethany’s raised eyebrows didn’t help. “Huh,” Bethany said. “Really?” She eyed Cassandra, who did her best to look cooperative and harmless. “How interesting,” she mused. “That’s why we’re here, too.”

“I thought you said _you_ were here for legitimate reasons.”

“No, I said I was here legitimately, since I took the posting. I never said my reasons for doing so were legitimate, too.”

Cassandra sighed. “You’re as bad as your sister.”

The grin Bethany gave her was quick and amused, and made her look far more like Hawke than anything else had. “Don't be ridiculous. She’s far worse.”

“And she’s back,” Merrill said, her eyes lighting up as she saw them.

Hawke strode towards them. To Cassandra’s eyes, she looked every bit as angry as she had when she’d last been at Adamant, but now, she looked haggard as well. Fenris, whose appearance was, in Cassandra’s opinion, far handsomer than Varric had given him credit for, shadowed her. She didn’t even glance at Cassandra as she addressed Bethany and Merrill. “Isabela won’t make it,” she said grimly. “She sent word ahead. There was trouble at the dock, apparently. She was hurt.”

“Oh, Creators,” Merrill gasped. “Is she alright?”

“She will be. She said she’s somewhere safe.” Hawke looked down, clenching her fists. For some reason, news of Isabela’s survival didn’t seem to be a good thing.

“Hawke.” Fenris put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Hawke ripped her shoulder out of his grasp. “No, you’re not. Merrill.” She looked up, catching Merrill’s eyes. “We’re doing it.”

“ _No_ , Hawke. I won’t do it.”

“We have to,” Hawke replied. “We don’t have any other choice.”

“Hawke, please.” Merrill wrapped her arms around her. “I _can’t_ do that.”

“You have to,” Hawke replied roughly. “I don’t care about the risks, I don’t care if you drain me dry.”

For the first time, Cassandra felt like she had any idea what was going on, or why she was tied up. It clicked. “Blood magic?” she whispered, disbelieving.

They seemed to have forgotten she was there, or most of them had, anyway. Startled, Hawke glanced at her, slipping out of Merrill’s hug. “You didn’t tell her?” Hawke asked.

“We were waiting for you,” Bethany said, shrugging.

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “Oh.”

That seemed like as good a confirmation as anything. “What in the Maker’s name are you doing with _blood magic_?” Cassandra asked, horrified. “I never thought… I mean, Merrill, I know you - but - Fenris? Bethany? All of you?”

“If you were wondering, that’s exactly the reason we had you tied up,” Hawke said tiredly. She crossed her arms, leaning her weight on one leg. “I really am sorry about that, but I couldn’t have you stopping me.”

“What is this really about?” Cassandra asked, still beyond confused.

“Chasing ghosts,” Merrill said to the ground. When Hawke had slipped out of her hug, she had huddled into herself, shaking. “After what happened, Hawke found me. She told me Varric had gotten himself stuck in the Fade, and she needed my help to get him out.”

“Varric’s dead,” said Cassandra. The words fell empty from her lips - they were the first time she’d said them out loud, and the first time she hadn’t entirely been sure if she could believe them.

Fenris made a judgemental noise. “Hardly.”

“He’s been running around in all our dreams,” Hawke said. “Do I know if he’s alive for sure? Maybe not. But we all keep seeing the same things in our nightmares. Call me superstitious, but I think it’s a sign. I think he’s still running from it. Surviving, somehow. Which means we can get him back.”

It made more sense to Cassandra than she wanted to admit. Hawke’s words resonated with her and reminded her of her own dreams. They were exactly as Hawke had described them. She had figured them the product of grief.

“But blood magic?”

Bethany sighed, walking over. “There’s precedent, actually.” She sat on a nearby chair, crossing her legs. “I’ve met the Hero of Ferelden, you know. She took a liking to me.”

“And you still didn’t bring back her autograph,” Hawke muttered.

“She had a lot of stories,” Bethany said, thoroughly ignoring her sister. “One of them was about this demon possession, you see. The demon had taken the body of a young child, and his mother wanted him to live. There was a blood mage present as they discussed it, and he provided a possible solution: with blood magic, they could send a mage into the Fade and see the demon killed without harming the boy.”

“But there must always be a sacrifice,” Merrill spat, glancing at Hawke.

Bethany looked at her with sympathy. “Yes, and no. The mother offered her own blood as fuel for the spell, to save her son. But the Hero was lucky. She had already helped the Circle mages, and they were in her debt. They were able to use lyrium - a massive amount - to do the same task the blood would have. Nobody died.”

“But the blood _would_ have worked,” Cassandra pieced together. “The mother would have been a willing sacrifice. Had the lyrium not been available…”

“A perfectly moral solution,” Bethany said softly. “Not ideal, of course… But far better than some alternatives. That’s only part of it. Wardens use blood magic, of a sort - I can’t tell you more than that, but they’ve been performing it to do what they must for hundreds of years. I even know of a case where a blood magic ritual actually brought life into the world, and saved another’s life at the same time - though I’m afraid I can’t speak more of that, either. Do I like blood magic? No. It provides too much, sometimes. It makes it so easy for mages to call demons. But there are times when it provides a unique solution. This is one of those times.”

Cassandra glanced at Fenris. She didn’t quite dare voice her question, but he replied to it anyway. “I don’t like magic. Especially blood magic,” he said, biting off the words. Then, a moment later, he added, “...But I owe Varric my life, and more.”

She nodded thoughtfully. That seemed to make sense, from what she knew of him. And it was possible that his stance on magic had relaxed in recent days.

When she looked at Hawke again, she saw surprise there, and a dawning hope not unlike the kind she’d seen in Merrill earlier. “You’re not shouting,” Hawke observed.

It was true, she wasn’t. There was a feeling unfurling in her chest that she didn’t dare name. She couldn’t believe herself, couldn’t believe any of this, and yet here she was, listening.

Merrill spoke up, though she would meet no one’s eyes. “I’m sure you know I have a certain expertise with this magic,” she said quietly. “I won’t take blood unwillingly, and the amount of blood we’d need to retrieve Varric would kill a person. But shared willingly, by several people, the donors would be weakened for a time, but they would survive. Five people, I thought. That’d be enough.”

Cassandra inhaled sharply. “And Isabela can’t make it.”

“That’s right.” Merrill inhaled. “But… there are five people here, right now.”

She couldn’t reply. She just… couldn’t. _Blood magic._

Hawke laughed bitterly. “Chantry. Figures.”

Merrill turned on her, suddenly angry. “You have _no_ right!” she shouted. “You’re putting me in this position! You’re making me choose between you and Varric!”

“I’ll be fine -”

“And what if you’re not, Hawke? And what if Varric _is_ dead, and you die, and it’s all for nothing?” Her voice broke, plagued by sobs. “Neither of you are immortal, you know! I’m not doing it!”

“We have to try!”

“I can’t talk with you like this, Hawke. I can’t do this.” Merrill stormed away, further into Adamant. She whipped out her staff as she left, using magic to slam the door shut behind her.

Hawke looked heartbroken, and Cassandra’s heart went out to her as she made as if to go after Merrill, but stopped with just one step, clenching her fist.

“I’ll go talk with her,” Fenris said, stepping past Hawke.

“Thank you.”

He side-eyed her. “I’m not doing it for you.”

Hawke winced as he walked after Merrill without another word. When he was gone, she threw up her hands and went to the other side of the courtyard. After pacing a little, she grabbed her bow and started to shoot arrows into a makeshift practice dummy on the other side.

“Welcome to the cozy little family,” Bethany murmured dryly.

Cassandra still didn’t know what to say. She stared at her hands, thoughtfully.

“Will you untie me?” she asked. “I swear will not run. Or... interfere. You’ve taken my weapons, anyway. Consider me your captive, still. I only wish to move around a little.”

Bethany thought it through. “Alright. I’ll trust you. You know as well as I do that any one of us could probably stop you if we had to… Stay in my sight, or someone else’s.”

“Very well.”

Soon, Bethany was undoing the knots, and Cassandra was freed. She stretched under Bethany’s wary eye, working out the kinks in her legs and arms.

Too many questions rang in her head. Too many dilemmas.

Varric could be alive. But the cost of retrieving him… Maker, she was considering it. For Varric. A couple of months ago, she would have never believed herself.

Maybe she had changed. For better or worse, she could not tell.

When she sat down by the fire again, resting, Bethany started telling her stories she’d picked up over the years. Slowly, the afternoon sun sank, and Cassandra let Bethany’s stories float through her, like pleasant background noise to the blaring confusion and turmoil in her mind.

-

Hawke had stopped attacking straw men and sat in the corner, moping. There was no other word for it.

“Do you think I could speak with Merrill?” Cassandra asked.

Bethany glanced at her. “Are you going to yell at her?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then, sure.” Bethany paused. “Merrill’s never going to blame you for any of this, by the way. You weren’t even supposed to be here, the way we see it. So don’t… feel pressured, or anything. She won’t even mention it again, if you don’t want her to. Please.”

Cassandra gave a short laugh. “Do I seem like the sort of woman who does something when pressured?”

“I suppose not, but I thought it was worth saying, anyway. Come on, let’s go find her. Maybe she and Fenris started playing chess in an officer’s room, or something.” She glanced over at Hawke. “Serah Drama over there will pull her head out of her ass soon, I’m sure.”

“Does she often do this?”

“Not really, but it’s not the first time, either. I think it’s mostly because she’s so worried about Varric. Normally, she’s not quite this…” Bethany shrugged. “This much.”

“She seems very laid-back, normally.”

Bethany was already walking into the castle, with her back turned to Cassandra. “She’s good at making you think that, isn’t she?”

A very specific choice of words, Cassandra thought to herself, following quietly.

They didn’t find Merrill in the first place they looked, or the second, but the third place they looked bore fruit. She and Fenris were at one of the highest points of the fortress, talking to each other quietly on the steps. Cassandra looked past them a little warily. Behind them was the area where the stone had crumbled under the dragon’s weight, and they’d fallen into the Fade. She trusted that the rest of the structure was stable, but she still felt unsettled about venturing too close.

As they approached, the two of them looked up, and Merrill gave a weak smile. “Not planning on reporting us to the Chantry, then?” she asked.

Cassandra sighed. “I don’t know _what_ I’m doing, but I’m not foolish enough to try that, no.”

“How’s Hawke?” Fenris asked, ignoring Cassandra.

“Sulking,” said Bethany. “Otherwise, fine. I’m sure she’s already kicking herself for what she said to you, Merrill.”

Merrill sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I love her, I really do, but she does make it hard, sometimes.”

Cassandra asked, “Have you already forgiven her?”

“I can’t stay mad when I know she’s only being so self-sacrificial because she wants to help Varric. They’re important to each other. I’d say they were like Falon’Din and Dirthamen, were they Dalish. Separating them, it’s unthinkable.”

Cassandra nodded slowly.

Maker help her. She didn’t know if she was doing the right thing here, but if she didn’t at least gather all the information before she truly made a decision, she knew she would regret it. She’d had enough of regrets recently.

“May I speak with you alone?” she asked Merrill, making the most sincere eye contact she could manage.

“Of course,” said Merrill, smiling a little again.

Fenris stood. “I don’t know -”

“Certainly,” Bethany said, cutting Fenris off with an over-sweet smile. “Take all the time you need, you two. Just remember, Cassandra, she’s cute, but she’s the most dangerous mage I know. Try not to piss her off.” Bethany walked away with a remarkable swagger for a woman who’d just made a clear threat to former Right Hand of the Divine.

“Hmph,” said Fenris, watching Bethany go. He looked at Cassandra out of the corner of his eye. “If you hurt her, and she’s too nice to do something about it, I won’t be,” he warned, before following Bethany off too.

Cassandra tried not to let their warnings unsettle her. She took a seat on the steps, next to Merrill, who was blushing slightly.

“They’re too protective, sometimes,” she mumbled.

“I don’t blame them,” said Cassandra. “You all seem to be very protective of each other, and not, I would think, without reason. I think I understand better where Varric got his protective streak from.”

Merrill laughed. “No, it was always there, we just worsened it. ...You still think he’s dead?”

“I…” Cassandra sighed, covering her face with one hand. “I have a spent a month and a half mourning him. And I haven’t been doing a very good job of it. You know that mistake the heroes always make in storybooks, where the main character doesn’t know how much somebody means to them until they’re gone? For all I know, he died thinking - thinking I thought him little more than a lowlife off the streets of Kirkwall, who happened to write enjoyable books. To think that I might - that I could tell him that was not the case…”

“I see,” said Merrill, gently. “That sounds very difficult.”

“What Hawke said, about all of you dreaming of him. Is it true?”

“Of course. My least favorite time, I was with my clan again. I was helping Master Ilen fix one of the aravels, and we were joking, laughing… And then I heard Varric speaking to me. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Daisy’, and I turned around to ask him what he had to be sorry for, but he was already running away, heading down the path to the old ruins with the eluvian. And then this massive creature came. It ripped up the trees with every step. It killed all of them. I remember screaming for Varric to keep running, until I woke up.”

“I’m - I’m so sorry, Merrill. Mine feel so much kinder, in comparison.”

“Yours?”

“My dreams. The ones where he’s running.”

“You’ve been having them too?” Merrill’s eyes were wide. “Then - you have to believe he’s alive! It can’t be coincidence! All of us who are here now, dreaming the same thing!”

Cassandra closed her eyes. “Merrill... If - if you only have four people, you won’t do the… the ritual, or whatever it is, that could bring Varric back. Is that right?”

It was a long moment before Merrill replied, and she did so quietly. “That’s right,” she said. “Hawke can say what she likes. She can’t make me do that to her.”

“What does this ritual entail?”

“I believe it’s fairly straight-forward, if… intense. We cut ourselves. I use the power in our blood to open the way to the Fade. It’s not a rift, exactly, which are like these jagged, harsh tears in the Veil. This is more like a temporary door, much gentler. It’s a stronger variation on a ritual designed to call forth a powerful demon, only in our case, if we’re very lucky… We get Varric back, instead.”

“And if we - if you’re not lucky?”

“A demon, possibly. Nothing on the Nightmare’s scale, I don’t think; you could say that it wouldn’t fit through the door. But if Varric’s - if he really is dead, then a lesser demon might come through instead. As long as we’re prepared for the possibility, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Yes. At least, as sure as one ever is, with the Fade, I mean, I’ve been going over the details every spare moment for weeks… Yes.”

Maker’s breath. It was the answer she both hadn’t wanted to hear, and did.

If she did this, she sacrificed much. More than mere blood. If she did this, and the Chantry ever found out, she would be disgraced forevermore, and while she had never cared much for her reputation, to be exiled from the Seekers, sent to the far west to die in the shame and the smoke… It was a fate that would destroy her.

Would she risk that fate for a second chance? For a righted wrong, righted through that which began to seem less and less like a wrong?

Could she make that sacrifice for Varric?

Bowing her head, Cassandra smiled painfully, wryly.

She had been meant to come here, she thought. Perhaps Cole had known that, somehow.

“No one can ever know,” she whispered.

“Cassandra?”

She coughed. “It would ruin the Inquisition, the Chantry. If this happens it must - it must be secret. We must come up with something. Say he fell out of the Fade all on his own, and we were simply there to catch him.”

“We - we figured Varric would come up with something, I’m sure he could.” Merrill laughed, though it was half a sob. “Are you serious? Are you really, really serious about this? Because - Creators, Cassandra, you of all people -”

“I’m serious.”

“It won’t be pretty, it might not even work, I don’t know -”

Cassandra met Merrill’s eyes for the first time in long while. “Then I trust you will see it through.”

Merrill’s eyes teared up. “How can you trust me that much? We’ve only just met -”

“You think for every story Varric has told you about me, he hasn’t told equal stories about you?” Cassandra asked. “As you said when we met, Merrill, I feel as though I already know you. I trust you. I trust in your love for Varric, as well as your knowledge of - of this magic.”

“Blood magic,” Merrill said with an insistent frown.

Cassandra let herself grimace, but she refused to look away, or back down. “Blood magic,” she amended, ignoring the way the words made her nerves flutter.

Merrill swallowed, nodding. “Thank you for your trust, Cassandra. I - I will do my best to earn it.”

Shakily, Cassandra smiled. “I know you will.”

-

In what she might have called a stroke of irony, at one time, while inadvisedly drunk, she noted that the blood mages hadn’t killed Anthony with blood magic.

Some of the details were hazy to her. She had been one of only a few survivors of the night, and to her knowledge, she was the only one who had witnessed her brother’s death. Sincere wish to become a proud warrior or no, she had been a little girl at the time. When the fires started, and they had come for Anthony, she had been afraid, and much was lost in that fear.

But the moment itself was ever in her mind. They had tried to take him down with magic, but it hadn’t worked. They had tried to capture him alive, and they had failed.

The man who killed her brother had a magic staff with a sharp metal hook on the end, like a scythe, and it cut through his neck cleanly, severing his head from his body with little fanfare.

Magic hadn’t killed him. A blade had, a blade not all that unlike her own.

It would take her years and years to consider how strange it was, then, that she came to wield the blade like it was part of her, and came to loathe magic to its very core. How strange to spend years reviling magic, only to spend decades slowly drawing back that hatred, taking it apart and reassembling the pieces into something more sensible than the broad curtain from before.

Even so, to be where she was now was a surprise to her.

She found her mind tracing over lines of the Chant of Light. They were full of warnings, of course. The story of the Black City, and the men who should never have set foot in the Maker’s domain. “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.”

But she had never before noticed that none of the lines were about blood magic, specifically - merely about controlling that power, ensuring that it was never used for the wrong reasons. In fact, passages came to mind that almost seemed to suggest the importance of blood. “In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.” The line felt so appropriate here, so fitting. Like it was pointing the way.

And then other parts of her screamed back that she _had_ to be wrong, that it was against all she’d been taught, all her life.

Yet, she wanted to follow what her heart was telling her, what her very _faith_ seemed to be leading her towards, despite everything. For as much as she was on edge, off balance with all this, when she made the decision, when she told Merrill she would do it, something unmistakably right had settled into place, and even the many doubts she carried with her could not dislodge it.

It was in this distracted frame of mind that she returned, with Merrill, to the center of Adamant. Of course, the moment they entered the courtyard, Hawke ran over to Merrill, throwing her arms around her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I - I wasn’t thinking, and - I’m sorry, Merrill, I’m _so_ sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Merrill said, smiling and hugging back warmly. She murmured something in Hawke’s ear that Cassandra didn’t catch, but Hawke hugged her tighter in response, and pressed a kiss to Merrill’s cheek.

When Merrill finally detangled herself from Hawke’s arms, she smiled at Fenris and Bethany. “Thanks for talking a little sense into her,” she said.

“No, she came to the conclusion that she’d fucked up on her own,” replied Fenris, smirking.

Chuckling, Bethany added, “I was very proud.”

Rolling her eyes, Hawke made a lewd hand gesture in their direction.

“Hawke.”

“Hmm?” Hawke looked back at Merrill, who still smiled gently, and looked at Cassandra.

Cassandra didn’t even have to say anything. Hawke looked to Merrill and back again, and said, “You’ll do it?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Hawke crossed her arms. “There’s no changing your mind. If you even try, I’ll kill you.”

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised to hear Hawke say that. “You could try. But you won’t have to.”

After a moment, Hawke began to smile, bitterly, but with just a shred of hope breaking through. “I think I see why Varric really likes you,” she said.

“He respected - _respects_ me,” Cassandra said, daring to smile a little back. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hawke laughed, almost cheerfully. “Whatever you say, Cassandra. Whatever you say.” She clapped her hands together. “Let’s do it.”

“Now?” Merrill squeaked.

“Now. Let’s waste as little time as possible. I want my friend back. _Now._ ” She darted forward quickly and kissed Cassandra so lightly, so quickly, that she wasn’t even sure it had really happened. “You’re one of us after this, you know,” she said, her back turned as she walked towards the balcony. “A co-conspirator. A partner in crime.”

Cassandra blinked away the surprise, deciding it was better not to worry about it. “Great,” she said dryly. “Just what I always wanted.”

“Don’t worry,” Merrill cheered. “You’ll fit in fine.”

Yes, it was definitely a bad sign that she thought she actually would. Something was very wrong with the world - most of all, the fact that it didn’t seem very wrong at all.

-

Preparations didn’t take long - it was, as Merrill had described, a simple ritual. However, every moment was a moment too long, and the wait stretched Cassandra’s patience almost too thin.

Merrill instructed each of them to sit in a circle, with an appropriate weapon at the ready. In her hand she loosely held a small knife, with a carved handle and a blade with a vine-like design twisting down its dull side - not a knife meant for combat, but for decoration, or perhaps for rituals just like this.

Fenris seemed to be planning to make use of his sword, which he laid out before him on the ground. There was an uncomfortable grimace on his face that spoke to how little he liked this, but to his credit, he said nothing. Bethany’s short sword had a small metal griffon on the hilt, and Hawke had a dagger in each hand, both of them simply crafted and slightly curved.

She flipped one around in her hand and offered it, hilt-first, to Cassandra.

“I thought you used a bow?” Cassandra asked, curiously.

Hawke gave a wicked grin. “I do prefer it, yes, but I’m very flexible.”

Willing herself not to blush, Cassandra took the dagger and inspected it. It was clean, suitable. She waved it around a little to get a feel for its weight, so she could use it comfortably. “Thank you,” she said, belatedly remembering her manners.

“Not a problem.”

“All ready?” Merrill asked. Everyone gave some form of assent, whether through nods or words. “Alright. Keep Varric fresh in your mind - I don’t think it will actually help the spell, but it can’t hurt. Don’t move unless I tell you to. Be ready in case it goes wrong. Cut yourself when I signal, doesn’t matter where, but cut long, not deep.”

With that somewhat ominous warning, Merrill began the ritual by slicing a short cut down her arm, wincing only slightly. Cassandra felt her stomach twist up as she dipped her finger into her own blood, and began to draw on the floor, creating a wide circle that passed in front of each of them. When she was done, she picked up her staff.

“Now all of you,” she murmured.

Cassandra hesitated, but would not let herself do so for very long. She sliced a clean cut all the way across the back of her hand, and stared up at Merrill.

Merrill took a deep breath and began to wave her staff. Blood rose up in the path it followed, starting to spiral in the air above the circle Merrill had drawn. To Cassandra, it felt like a deceptively gentle tug on her hand. In the corner of her eye, she saw that Hawke’s blood came from a cut on the left side of her collarbone and Bethany’s from the side of her palm. She couldn’t see Fenris any longer, from the opposite side of the blood and magic curling into the air.

Cassandra held her breath. She thought of Varric. She thought of her regrets, and the things she wished to say to him. She thought of his books and his crossbow and his chest hair, his pens and his necklace and his jokes, his scratchy laughter, his most wicked smile. She thought of the words he’d written about her, of a black patch of ink on a page, of unwritten letters of assurance and bone-deep loyalty to friends.

She hadn’t known she had so much to think of, when it came to Varric, but she did.

As the spiral of blood sped up, it slowly began to glow, and took on a greenish hue, and soon gave off the smoke-like wisps of magic she associated with rifts, with the Fade.

Then, she heard a scream.

Before she could consciously think to do otherwise, she was on her feet, though it gave her brief vertigo. The blood loss was affecting her. “Varric!” she shouted, only slightly startled to hear it echoed in Hawke’s voice.

“Stay put!” Merrill shouted.

“He’s in pain!” Hawke yelled back. She had stood, too.

Cassandra caught Hawke’s eye, and glanced at the column of light. Varric was screaming again - she couldn’t just do nothing.

“Let’s grab him!” Hawke said.

Merrill added, “Hawke, be careful!”  

Cassandra thrust her arm into the light.

It felt wrong, like something had twisted her arm upside-down the instant she had thrust it in. If she yelled, she didn’t hear it. She was reaching, hoping to find something -

A hand grabbed hers, and without allowing herself to think about it, she pulled it forward, stepping back to throw her weight into the pull. She saw Hawke doing the same. Slowly, they made progress.

Varric’s scream was cut off, and Cassandra stumbled back, no longer met by any resistance. The column of light gave a last flare of light, and then stopped, very suddenly. It collapsed into blood, splashing and pooling on the ground, then draining into nothingness.

And in front of her, there was Varric, dangled by a hand in hers and another in Hawke’s, kneeling on the ground. He looked thin, pale, unshaven. She almost didn’t believe her eyes when he blinked up at them, his eyes as clever and bright as ever.

“Hawke?” he said, his voice hoarse.

Then, he looked over at her, and pulled off one of the most bewildered voices she’d ever heard. “ _Seeker?_ ”

She began to smile.

As if from the shock, he went slack in her grip, and passed out. Merrill began to fuss over him, and Bethany began to heal everyone’s cuts, and Fenris had somehow found bandages.

Cassandra and Hawke watched over the process, holding his hands with no intention of letting go.

-

“Do you know what, to me, your most valuable asset is, Cassandra?”

Justinia asked the question spontaneously, but Cassandra wasn’t particularly surprised. She had been in a contemplative mood that day.

“No,” Cassandra replied honestly. “What?”

“Your doubt.” Cassandra raised her eyebrows, and a little confused. From many, that would have been an insult, or a hindrance. Smiling wryly, Justinia continued. “Your faith is strong, Cassandra, but the faithful are many. There are too many in this world who would believe unquestioningly, who would go to their deaths if I, with my Holiness, instructed them to die. You, however, wouldn’t - not without thinking it through, at least.”

That was an overestimation, in Cassandra’s mind. There was much she would do for Justinia, if the occasion called for it. “And this benefits you?”

“You believe in the Chant of Light, and take great strength from it, but you do not put complete trust in all that it says. You believe in me, but only so far as I continue to do the Maker’s work. You act on your own accord, and do what needs doing, even if it’s difficult. There is a vital place for the faithful whose thoughts never once stray from the course, and they are important. But you, always with that pillar of belief, but always seeking the truth… I need both kinds of people at my side, if I am to accomplish my goals as the Divine.”

Cassandra was a little tired of philosophy, that day. “Was there a point to this speech, Most Holy?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “Just the idle thoughts of an old woman, growing older. I merely hope you know that I appreciate your work a great deal.”

“I’m honored to hear that,” Cassandra said. And she was.

This, Cassandra thought, was not what Justinia had meant.

It was going to take her some time to come to terms with what she had done, she knew. But the longer she thought about it, the quieter the voice in her head telling her everything she had done was wrong became. It helped to see him now, sleeping peacefully. With every breath she saw him take, she felt a little more resolved that it was worth it.

After a while, she decided to leave him alone, with Merrill tending to him.

Merrill warned, “Don’t strain yourself. No lifting a sword or climbing stairs. I mean it! I have enough on my hands making sure Varric will be fine. I won’t have any of you doing something foolish.”

Cassandra still felt weak from blood loss, but she needed to move before her need to fidget grew out of her control. “I won’t go far,” she promised. “If I feel at all ill, I’ll return here.”

“Good.”

Merrill had a soft smile on her face as she returned her attention to Varric, tending a cut he’d picked up somehow with a poultice.

Drifting, Cassandra wandered away from the fortress’ makeshift infirmary, walking with slower, shorter steps than her usual brisk pace. Her feet brought her to Adamant’s front gate, for whatever reason.

At night, under a bright moon, the area was gorgeous and silent. The wind shifting the sand made enough noise to muffle the rest, and left only gentle sounds in its wake. The creatures who lived in this area stayed away from the fortress, but Cassandra remained within reach of the winch that could quickly lower the portcullis, just in case a large beast caught sight of her and happened to feel a little daring.

For a time, she let herself be soothed by the scenery. For whatever reason, she had thought that doing blood magic would change her, somehow. It hadn’t really. All it had left her with was a handful of questions and a small thin scar on the back of her hand, hardly noticeable after Bethany’s Warden-trained healing.

She heard footsteps, and turned her head. For whatever reason she wasn’t surprised to see Hawke approaching. Her expression was unfamiliar to Cassandra, if only because it was a remarkably peaceful one.

“Thanks,” said Hawke.

“I did not do it for your gratitude,” Cassandra replied quietly.

“Of course not.” Hawke leaned against the opposite wall, thoughtfully. “You have it anyway. After this, you’re going back to the Inquisition?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” asked Cassandra.

Hawke grimaced and looked away. “...You’ll understand if I’m still not particularly happy with them.”

Feeling the need to defend her decision, Cassandra said, “It is important work we do.”

“Is it? I suppose, for now. But after…” Hawke sighed, and shook her head. “I suppose until Corypheus finally meets his end, there’s no point in thinking about that. And I suppose I can hardly stop Varric from returning with you, as much as I’d like to tell him to run far away while he has the opportunity.”

Cassandra snorted. “And what, go into hiding? How would he publish his books, then?”

Hawke cracked a small smile. “Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly the defense he’d use if I bothered arguing with him. At any rate, we’re going to scatter again. Bethany will remain, maybe you and Varric can use her in whatever ruse he comes up with. Merrill and Fenris will probably lie low together for a while, maybe with Isabela, before returning to Kirkwall. I haven’t decided where I’ll go yet. Maybe to Weisshaupt to check on Alistair,” she mused. “Or I could look into Corypheus some more. I wonder if there’s anything I could get done, on my own, that a large power like your Inquisition couldn’t.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be found,” Cassandra said, raising skeptical eyebrows. “Why tell me this?”

“After this, if I can’t trust you with my whereabouts, I think I’ll have a lot more to worry about than the Inquisition breathing down my neck.”

She had a point.

“Look,” Hawke said, glancing away again. “Touchy-feely isn’t my strong point. You’ve shown us how much you would sacrifice for Varric, and that’s big. We won’t forget it. _I_ won’t forget it. If you ever need any of us, I’m sure we’ll come. You… You’ll have our support, wherever you go, Cassandra.”

Hoping her surprise didn’t show on her face, Cassandra gave a slow nod. The kind of support Hawke meant went beyond mere words, she could tell. Hawke was as good as saying any of them would risk their life for her.

And yet, wouldn’t she do the same?

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Hawke said, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, I’d like to keep in touch. Maybe I’ll sneak letters to you through Varric, or something. If that’s alright?”

Cassandra smiled wryly. She’d been seen through. “I think I would like that,” she said. “I - I do not know if I have done the right thing, this night. But if Varric is returned to us, and I was able to meet his friends and become friends with them myself, something good has come of it, at least.”

“There you go. Looking on the bright side.” Hawke chuckled. “I don’t know if we’ve done the right thing either, you know, but I also really don’t care. It was the right thing for me. It was what I needed to do, so I did it. Maybe it’s the same for you?” She kicked herself away from the wall, heading back into Adamant’s heart with a cheerful step.

Cassandra pondered that thought. There was some merit to it. Regardless of whether her actions had been right or wrong, if she thought about it, she knew that if she had chosen not to attempt this, to damn Varric to his fate, she would have regretted it.

Regrets were terrible things. Regrets and grief had driven her to lose sight of herself. She might question what she had done here, but she would not regret it. Varric would live, and she would - she would be changed. But it would be a change she could live with, and a change she would not go through alone.

“I see what must be done, and I do it,” Cassandra murmured to herself, thinking of something she’d said to Lavellan long ago. It was not so dissimilar from what Hawke had said. Interesting.

The Cassandra who walked back into Adamant walked with purpose, sure of herself as she sought out Hawke once more. If Hawke intended to cover what ground the Inquisition could not, then the knowledge of one of the Inquisition’s top officers would surely be useful in planning out her course.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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